


Masquerade

by Snowsheba



Series: a shipping challenge, Dave edition (ON HIATUS) [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, F/M, Medievalstuck, Writing Prompt, tw: mentions of attempted suicide, tw: thoughts of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowsheba/pseuds/Snowsheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was time to test the theory that idle talk cost lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being a lot more depressing than I originally planned.
> 
> And also a lot less romance-y and a lot more angsty. Whoops.

You are a knight in all senses of the word: chivalrous, honorable, battle-scarred, handsome. You’re strong, you look dashing on a horse, and your skill with a sword isn’t something to be scoffed at. You pledged your life for the king who used to be your best friend (and still is, but only in privacy), and you protect him and his closest advisors with tooth and claw. Their lives always come before yours, and you wouldn’t hesitate for a second to throw yourself in the way of danger if it would save them.

You cite all of these arguments as your king is getting dressed (he is unusual in the fact he does not have servants help him; in fact, on some occasions, the job is left to you), and he will have none of them. He is a stubborn man, and while your will is made of iron, you know resisting his Highness himself is foolhardy.

“You have to socialize _sometimes_ , Sir Dave,” he says with that smile-smirk of his. You give him a blank stare in return, and he elaborates, “Look, all you need to do is impress some people by regaling them with your fights and battles and how you rose to your position, and then you’re home-free.”

 “Your Majesty,” you say warningly, and the grin drops off his face as you remind him stonily, “I don’t want to talk about the wars.”

“Yeah, I know. But maybe just a few tales about your greatest victories?”

“A lot of my friends died during those successes, Majesty,” you reply, and inadvertently you violently remember a small-horned troll jumping in front of you, a blade cutting a neat diagonal line, and bright, red blood splashing against your skin and clothes and armor. You shake it off as best you can, fisting your hands when they don’t stop quivering, and add bluntly, “I’d still rather skip.”

“No can do, Sir Dave. People want to know who you are, what you do… more importantly, whether you’re as pretty-faced as they say.”

“The fuck am I pretty-faced? What happened to handsome?”

“See, just be like that and you’ll have all the ladies swooning over you!” John says with a flourish, and you admit he looks his royal lineage, dressed in bright blues with his cape secured by his wind-blown crest. "You'll be tripping on them left and right."

“Uh huh. Can I just stick to Jade?” Jade, at least, you can talk with; you are actually very good friends with her.

“Unlike you, the Witch is quite sociable! Staying with her means you’ll be forced to talk to even more people.” He laughs as you groan. “Which I’m sure you would of course prefer at this point, hm?”

“Shut it.” He does, but not without laughing some more. “So you’re just going to leave me to flail around and make a humiliating embarrassment of myself, then?”

“Well," he says, and his tone grows thoughtful as he says, "I suppose you might stay with Rose."

“Majesty, talking with the Seer can be equated with rubbing one’s head with a grater.”

“Not of the cheese variety, I hope,” he quips, and then he says more seriously, “Look, I really am sorry, Dave, but you have to at least make an appearance. People don’t like how you never show up at parties, you know? Gives us a bad image.”

“Sure,” you say, adding with a shrug because clearly you do not care about goddamn politics (that _is_ why you are a knight and not a diplomat), “Whatever.”

He ignores you with good cheer, and you obligingly follow him when he leaves his chambers. At least your scarlet cape billowing out behind you makes you feel a little better, even if the absence of your sword’s weight by your hip will bother you all night.

* * *

 “Ah, Sir Dave. A pleasure.”

You call it a force of habit as you bow to her, taking her gloved hand and pressing it to your lips. She is cool to the touch, and her fingers are long and lithe, much like your own, though she keeps her hood drawn so her unusual eyes are hidden from the world.

(You’re surprised she even lets you touch her, considering how often you’ve conversed with her – thrice, if you included the murmured ‘a thousand pardons’ as she brushed past you last week.)

“Can’t say the same, Seer Rose,” you say bluntly, because she would see through anything else and you’ve learned honesty is the best policy around her. She gives you a flicker of a smile in appreciation of aforementioned honesty as you ask her out of politeness, “How’re things on your end?”

“A trifle unengaging, if I’m truthful. Visions come and go as they will, and as of late, I have been having a strange silence from the other side.”

“Don’t quite understand what that ominously-phrased ‘other side’ means, but duly noted,” you say, and she does that quicksilver smile again, as swift as your flashstep. “His Majesty said I should stick to your side tonight.”

“Yes, I know.” Of course she does. Her lavender eyes gleam with a cat’s cunning. “He seems quite certain our shared disinterest in idle conversation would spark a deep and profound friendship between us. Of course, for all of the king’s experiences and intelligence, he can be embarrassingly naïve about certain aspects of life. With, naturally, all due respect.”

“Agreed. To be fair, though, Seer, it is not that much of a stupid move on his part, considering, well.” You make a vague gesture at you and her, then at the berth people are giving the two of you. “Us.”

“I suppose, if by ‘us’ you mean in the sense that we are both quite the court enigmas. I rather like it that way, of course. Makes it easier to navigate just about everywhere, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

She nods approvingly before efficiently changing the subject. “I insist you sit next to me during the dinner, or I fear I shall pass out from boredom.”

You give her a little bow. “As you wish. We can’t have you swooning into the boar, after all. You know how Jade will feel about that.”

“Indeed. Why, I believe the last time her food was touched in a fashion she did not approve of, she thought it an excellent idea to sic Becquerel on the poor soul.”

“Shit was ridiculous,” you agree, and then your mouth keeps going, which is a little odd but not overly so, “Weird like some kind of crazy, screaming mandrake trying to paralyze you by blowing up your ear drums.”

Her eyes crinkle at the edges. “I will take your word for it.”

“They’re something that Jade would freak out about, now that I think about it,” you say thoughtfully, “She’s into that sort of exotic I-can-kill-you-with-my-voice plants right – yeah, whatever, seriously, who the fuck sets a giant wolf-monster to get his munch on some old diplomat who can’t even get a word out without spittle flying everywhere?”

Rose chuckles quietly, cozying up to you and setting a hand on your arm. You can see a man leering at her turn away upon sighting the red crest decorating the breast of your fine shirt; you wonder who would be brave enough to try and woo a Seer, except the one man who'd done so years past and had gotten executed for his trouble. “I do miss your charming and obscene metaphor when I find myself without anything to do, Sir Dave. It certainly does help to lighten a mood.”

“I’m a knight, Seer. Not a light.”

“That was an awful pun,” she says with a laugh. You wonder how often she does it.

After a few moments you are both guided to your seats – near the King, as always, considering your respective positions as Sworn Protector and Sworn Clairvoyant. Jade is there as well, though you aren’t exactly sure what her exact position is called. You do know she occasionally performs feats of impressive engineering, design, and magic, and you wonder if there is actually a specific name for that nonlinear line of work.

Both she and John ignore you in favor of communicating with the guests, and so Rose turns to you while you turn to her and ask her, “You want to tell each other interesting tidbits about our lives for no reason at all other than to briefly entertain ourselves for more than a minute at a time?”

“That sounds delightfully intriguing,” she replies. “Shall we start with what our duties normally entail?”

“Watching that stupid king’s ass,” you say reflexively. Rose hides a smile behind her hand as you add, somewhat sheepishly, “And sometimes fighting in wars and getting assassins out of the picture.”

She nods and folds her hands in front of her before lifting them to her chin, making a sort of tent with her fingers. “I awaken early in the morning to sit in the dawn’s light with a bowl of holy water, where I occasionally see images of what is to come. Afterwards, for the most part, my day comprises of absolutely no communication with other parties, and a large chunk of time is devoted to meditation while bathed in sunbeam – for lack of a better activity to do.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You have no idea, Sir Dave,” she replies, and that is that. You know better than to try and pursue the subject. “Tell me about your latest crisis.”

“The one with the kitchen maid attempting to slit my throat, or the time a few days ago with an assassin who tried to kill John – his Majesty, I mean, with a butter knife?” You don’t need to say anything else on the matter as she keeps a hand over her mouth, and you crack a small grin. “Latest vision that wasn’t traumatizing, go.”

“A few days ago I was blessed with the image of a troll lowblood flirting with the servant girls in his room. He was not deterred when I suggested we replace the servants with males.”

“Why the hell would you get visions of an Alternian diplomat?”

“I do not know. As I have said previously, I have no control over what is shown to me and when it is shown to me.” She shrugs, a brief expression of annoyance clouding her features that is of course gone in an instant, and then she is saying with a devilish smile, “Most recent time you broke a sword.”

“Three hours ago,” you reply promptly, and she looks surprised, so you explain, “I’m pretty proficient with half-swords, even when the balance is off.”

“Really.”

“I’d love to demonstrate, Seer, but we both know that would end badly.” You don’t say on whose part. You don’t actually know.

“What about actual swords?”

“Yeah, I can use those.” She raises an eyebrow. “Look, Zahhak is a beast and, besides bro, the only one who actually poses a challenge to me. He’s shattered so many swords our blacksmith had to hire five assistants.”

“I trust your judgment.”

“That judgment has rescued his Majesty more times than you, if I remember correctly. Of course, on occasion we could rely on your visions, which is still correct only about one half of the time.”

“ _Specifics_ are correct only one half of the time,” she amends, “While the main theme of my insight is still completely accurate.”

You give this a half nod of assent, and then you say, “Last time you played hooky.”

She gives you a Look that says _how dare you insinuate that I ever skip my duties_ , but then she admits with a smirk, “I am not supposed to be here.”

“Damn.” It comes out in an impressed tone; the Church of Light is known for having a strict leash on their oracles. “Nicely done, Seer. How’d you sneak out?”

“You would be surprised how useful it is to have a sister in the Church of Void,” she replies. “Seeing as my own church is their trusted partner, we merely said we would be at each other’s places for the evening.”

“Always good to have family in higher-up positions,” you agree, thinking of Dirk and how he would be drowning in spymaster duties at the moment. He’s always had a head for that sort of thing; you, you focus on what you do best, and keeping track of hundreds of reports isn’t one of them.

“The trick is rather elementary, really, but the High Priests have never been exceptionally gifted in the mental institution.”

“Yes, yes, I understand you’re amazing and you hate your life because it is shit. Your turn.” When she doesn’t say anything, you realize you’ve actually hit on something pretty important, and you turn your complete attention to her. “Wait, so you don’t actually want to be a seer?”

She shakes her head, but not with as much adamance as you had expected. “I am fine with being a Seer; rather, I’d prefer not be in the Church of Light,” she says at length. “My sister is lucky to be where she is. She has the freedom to do as she wishes, while I am not allowed to leave without extensive amounts of paperwork and lectures.”

“Everyone always says that – ”

“ – the Church of Light is hallowed and pure and its golden doors welcome all who approach, I am aware.” Her voice is steely. “Welcome, yes, but not to those who dwell within its walls. Blessed as I am by the Goddess herself, it makes small journeys to the outdoors all the more difficult.”

“Least you didn’t get Time, Seer,” you say, and you tap the red gear emblem embroidered on your breast when her eyebrows go up in an unspoken question. “I’ve run into myself a few times, even though I have no idea how the hell I even begin to travel through time.”

“You’ve run into yourself.”

“It was actually pretty chill, future me ain’t so bad. Cryptic as hell, but good company.”

She gives a resigned sigh before speaking. “Tell me, when was the last time you went to bed without a weapon within arm’s reach?”

“Never have since I turned three,” you reply. She doesn’t look surprised. “Last time a person you saw triggered a vision.”

“A fortnight ago. Jake English, as you know, returned from a journey from who-knows-where, and I predicted he would be shot in the leg if he went south. He thus went north.” She pauses, just for a moment. “The last time you had to go undercover for your brother.”

“I think it’s been a month, had to sneak into some lordling’s castle and then steal some documents. Almost got killed but hey, for the greater good, I guess.”

“Right.” She sounds just as doubtful as you feel, and you both fall silent even as chatter echoes around you. In fact, the room is full of noise and life, and you feel as if you are in a dark, serious corner in a world of light and laughter.

(Here you are waxing poetry, too. You’d say the wine was getting to you, but you haven’t touched anything since the meal started.)

"Last time you saw a dead body." You don't know what makes you say it, but by the time you realize it the words have already escaped your lips.

"A woman committed suicide in the Church yesterday," Rose says softly. "Her wife had killed their child, and she could not take the grief. Most recent time you had to hurt someone."

"Tortured a spy last week, got what we needed out in fifteen minutes." It hadn't been pleasant, but when was it, really? "Last time you wanted to murder your church leaders."

She snorts. "At least twice an hour, depending on whatever activity I am partaking in. Most recent time you wanted to strangle his Majesty for his apparent stupidity."

"When he forced me to come here, except we both know he is way more wily than he seems." You pause. “Last time you’ve killed someone,” you say quietly.

“I am a Seer, not an executioner.” And then she twitches. It’s a tiny movement, so little you hardly notice it. You just look at her, and she sighs.“It has been two years since I was required to destroy with my own hands.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You do, thinking of her ill-fated suitor, and she turns piercing lavender eyes on you, barely visible from under her hood. “Amount of kills in the war.”

Welp, no way you could pass off that flinch you just did there as anything intentional. Your hands fist in your lap, and you look down as you go through a quick calming exercise, breathe, breathe. You see her hand lift, reach, fall; good, you don’t know what you would do if she touched you.

“A lot,” you say at last, your voice perfectly even. She doesn’t press the issue, and you say more softly, more hoarsely, “I try to forget every day.”

“I apologize.” Her voice is hushed. “For asking.”

“It’s…” It’s not okay, you want to say. It was intrusive, it was wrong, she shouldn’t have. But no, it’s, well, it’s, “Okay. Um.” You swallow, ask her, “How many friends you’ve seen dead.”

She lets out a little sound, her lips a perfect ‘o’, “Five. Taken away after my blessing was confirmed. Two killed in front of me; one hung outside the walls; one enslaved; one by my – one by – ” Breathe, swallow, breathe, “One by my own hand, over ten years ago.”

“Oh.”

“Friends you’ve seen dead.”

 _Karkat, Kanaya, Aradia, so many others,_ “Lots of my knights under my command died. At least fifty. Probably more.” So hard to say it, but it’s true, and that makes it worse. “It was bad.”

“I can only imagine.”

“You don’t want to.”

The heaviness your statement brings causes the two of you to fall silent once more, and this time, you only barely notice the looks people are giving the pair of you. Quiet, serious, sad-faced individuals speaking in whispers and looking pale and scared and unhappy, but this is how it always is, isn’t it? You’re never the same as them, not after what you’ve been through and what you’ve done, and you can only pretend for so long. The Seer, the Seer is not so different, you know now, and you suddenly have to ask her, to hear her answer, because if she says yes then you aren’t crazy.

“Can I ask a serious question?” you say to her, and she nods, and you say, “Last time you contemplated just giving up.”

“Every waking minute,” she replies softly and without hesitation, and then she bitterly elaborates even though you hadn’t given her an indication you wanted to, though you did. “My life has been a cage, every action set in stone, every word dictated by the gods. At first I thought it was marvelous, to have every whim catered to and every desire fulfilled. Now I crave the impossible, and there is not a single person who can give me freedom.”

“Mm.” You look down at your knees for a few moments, and look up when she speaks.

“Last time you cried,” she whispers, barely audible. You can only bite your lip and admit the truth.

“Four days ago.” Pause. “Last time you tried.”

“Tried…?”

“To end it,” you say bluntly.

You hear her shuddery breath, her ashamed whisper of, “Yesterday,” you see the single tear that drops from her face into the napkin on her lap. You both sit quietly at your seats, turned to face each other, plates and cutlery untouched. After all, what else is there to do, and what else is there to say?

Then she offers one hand under the table, and you take it without hesitation.


End file.
